


Cellophane

by AvianAtrocities



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, coping with mental illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:45:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7180994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvianAtrocities/pseuds/AvianAtrocities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patience is your virtue, saint o’ mine,<br/>I’d have fallen through the cracks without your love tonight,<br/>I’m your groundhog, and I'm skating on thin ice,<br/>But you see me at your feet and carry me inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cellophane

Junkrat gnawed absentmindedly on his thumb. The flesh one, obviously.

He sat in a rickety old wooden chair, odds and ends of scrap and junk laid out on the table before him. A small pile of grenade shells sat idly by, a jar of garish yellow paint next to that. He chewed on his nails, scraping nail polish off his thumb as he dragged it across his lower incisors. He kept at it until every fleck of paint had been removed, then he attacked the flesh around the nail with his canines.

His skin felt itchy, like it didn’t fit his gangly frame.

Roadhog was somewhere nearby, he reminded himself, but not remembering his own words. He thought to himself about his bombs, about the little smiles he painted on each and every one. His mind drifted off to thoughts of the heist they had been planning the night before, a bank was the target, nothing too fancy. The money would be good for their trip across the sea, maybe they’d stop in Hawaii before moving up towards Japan. It would be fun to see the world, he mused to himself, tearing a piece of cuticle from his index finger.

His thoughts ran further still, he found himself barely thinking, not even the usual incoherent babble of his normal inner monologue. Instead, he sat, bum leg bouncing up and down, the shock absorber creaking with each movement.

When his index finger started bleeding like his thumb had, he moved on to his middle finger, silently murmuring about the taste of blood.

He wondered if Hog liked the taste of it. Probably.

It had been a while since he had blinked, but he hadn’t felt the sting in his eyes. He wasn’t really there, if he was being honest.

His leg squeaked in protest of the bouncing, and Junkrat only sighed in reply.

He moved on the next finger, ignoring the coagulated blood.

Maybe he should eat something. Or sleep. Water? Did he need to piss? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t know. He didn’t feel real. He hobbled to the flat double bed on the other side of the room, laying face down as the mattress squeaked in protest to his weight. His chest hurt. He breathed harder. Deep inhales, fast exhales. His chest hurt even more.

He must have conked out at some point, because the next thing he knew he was sitting upright in bed, disoriented in the afternoon light.

Roadhog was sitting on the shitty motel couch, turned to face him as the little television blared quietly on.

“You’re awake.”

Junkrat nodded, eyes blinking separately.

“You’ve been chewing on yourself again.”

Rat looked down at his hand, stained with soot and paint and blood.

“Fuck off,” he said lamely, bristling at the statement.

He felt like he needed another nap, some water, and maybe a shower. Dried sweat stuck to him like flies in honey. He stuck out his tongue.

Roadhog grumbled something, then stood and stalked over to the threadbare bed, the mattress dipping as he sat on the edge.

“Give me your hand,” Hog ordered.

Rat obliged, not feeling the energy to argue or decline.

The bigger man turned the smaller hand around, inspecting it silently through hidden eyes.

He said nothing, but stood up and strode to the other side of the small room, moving through his rucksack in search of something.

Junkrat remained on the bed, running his metal hand through his tussled-more-than-usual hair.

The big Maori returned after a moment, hand fisted around something the smaller Aussie couldn’t make out. “Hand,” Hog grunted. Rat gave his arm back to him. The items were revealed to be a large metal file and a bottle of pitch black paint. Junkrat kept uncharacteristically quiet as Roadhog carefully took his hand and began to smooth down the jagged nails.

Roadhog had always been fond of silence. He was a generally quiet man and appreciated introversion. So it struck him odd that he found Junkrat’s lack of noise unsettling.

He wiped the blood and grime from the smaller man’s fingers. His own broad digits were massive next to Rat’s long and burnt ones.

The smell of paint caused a brief coughing fit, and Junkrat pulled away to grab a canister for him. He popped it into his mask and took a few deep breaths, then took Rat’s hand back, and started to paint.

They both sat hunched over in silence, only the t.v. filling the air with any sort of sound. Neither of them heard it.

Hog finished the first coat on the last of Rat’s fingers, then sat up and mumbled, “blow.” The toasted terror did so.

They stared at each other for another moment, unmoving. Junkrat wondered why, briefly, but couldn’t will himself to speak.

But he at least felt like he was back in his body.

Roadhog lifted his hand again and started on a second coat, Junkrat took the opportunity to study the boar’s arm. It was dark and fuzzy, his hairs starting to grey. There were moles and scars scattered around, one of them looked kind of like a shark bite.

“There,” rumbled Roadhog. 

Junkrat blinked, marveling at the other man’s handiwork. Even though they’d been doing this for a while, it felt unfitting for such delicate work from such a rough man. But Roadhog’s hands had been warm and gentle, and even if it was still surprising, it felt nice.

“Thanks,” he muttered, not enjoying the dryness of his mouth.

“Don’t fuck up your fingers again,” Roadhog warned, but somehow it didn’t sound like a threat, especially not when the pig was ruffling his singed hair and pulling him into his arms.

Junkrat smiled weakly against Roadhog’s chest, exhausted.

**Author's Note:**

> Coping with my mental issues by writing Junkrat coping with his. Might do one for Roadhog too.
> 
> I woke up this morning to the new of the Pulse Shooting in Florida, my heart goes out to my brothers and their families. May those who died rest in peace and may the wounded recover.
> 
> My heart hurts.


End file.
